


Only You Know Me

by Lovejoy



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Apathetic Victim, Blood As Lube, Choking, M/M, Part II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24901945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovejoy/pseuds/Lovejoy
Summary: Near’s security is tight, but Mello slips by anyway. He can't help but think that's a little too fucking apt.
Relationships: Mello | Mihael Keehl/Near | Nate River
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Only You Know Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ratbat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratbat/gifts).



Near’s security is tight, but Mello slips by anyway. He can't help but think that's a little too fucking apt.

He’s expecting to be stopped, however, when he gets to Near’s room—but there’s nobody there but Near himself, all alone in his vacant observatory, except for his miniature city of building blocks. He’s sitting on a chaise longue, a puzzle in his hands; one knee crooked up, the other laid flat against the cushions, all of him a blot of pure white against the dull grey of the room. The blue light from all the screens makes him look even more ghostly: a hologram instead of a human boy. 

He’s offensively pale, in every respect, save for the two pitch holes in his face he calls eyes—the only dark thing on him. His hair’s getting a little too long; Mello wonders who cuts it for him. Once, years ago, Mello had watched him cut it himself, the flash of metal scissors in the big mirror over the vanity in his bedroom. In a fit of envy, he’d imagined jamming the scissors into Near’s throat. The thinking was, back then: a dead Near was a second-best Near.

Mello doesn't bother with subtlety. He never especially has. Near must’ve known he’d be coming to visit, anyway, so what’s the point? Spitefully, he puts a little too much force into his footsteps, and a precarious chunk of the block city falls over in a cacophony of noise.

“Mello,” Near says calmly, flatly, like Mello hasn't just destroyed hours of work.

“What is this?” Mello looks around at the empty room. “Sent your guard dogs home for the night?”

Near doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at him.

Mello prowls closer, skirting the edge of the chaise longue before going around the back of it, dragging the palm of his hand along the silken upholstery. Near looks unperturbed, face like a porcelain mask, but now his gaze follows Mello as he circles, carefully watching. He lowers his puzzle, but does not set it aside. 

“What do you want, Mello?” Near asks, his voice echoing softly in the vaulted room. He asks it like he already knows the answer. He asks it in English, too, and that unbearably crisp accent has Mello wanting to bite the tongue out of Near’s mouth.

The sudden urge to _ruin_ , to destroy utterly, creeps up Mello’s throat like bile. He imagines it like a nature documentary: his teeth in Near’s neck, his claws in Near’s hips.

Fuck this.

Mello swings over the back of the chaise longue and shoves Near violently down into the cushions. Near’s puzzle falls to the floor and shatters into its many hundreds of individual parts. He utters a soft noise, but it doesn’t sound surprised. “Get off,” he says, flatly.

Mello doesn’t.

Instead, he gets his hands around Near’s throat and squeezes, testing. Near’s hands fly up, circling his wrists like iron shackles, but they don’t try to pull him away. His pale brow furrows, jaw clenching; Mello can feel him swallowing beneath his palm, Adam’s apple bobbing in distress. His pupils constrict, and then pulse open. Mello has to assume it’s adrenaline, but he hopes it’s fear.

“Have you finally got up the nerve to kill me?” Near breathes, voice reedy and thin with pressure.

“Shut up,” Mello hisses, and lets go of his throat.

Near gasps in air, but he’s still trapped underneath Mello’s weight, and Mello hunches over him, hands flat on the cushions next to his shoulders. Near’s chest heaves beneath him, his body limp. Now the pure white of him is hidden from the world, enveloped in a cocoon of Mello’s filth—but he could always be filthier.

What's stopping him? Nothing. No one.

Mello shoves the crisp white button-up from Near’s shoulders, tears it open, baring a thin slice of flat, unmarked chest and two tight, pink, pebbled nipples. He fumbles at Near’s loose trousers and shoves those down too, out of the way. The sight of him bared, his pitiful naked body with its delicate proportions and flawless skin, is almost unbearably arousing. 

He circles a trembling hand around Near’s soft cock and presses them together, holding the delicate flesh against the bulge in his own trousers. He groans, seeing the difference, the disinterest. It makes him furious. It makes him so fucking _hard._

“Rape, Mello?” Near says. He hasn't moved, hasn't tried to push him off. Had he been expecting this too? Was that why he was allowing it? “This is beneath you.”

_Nothing is beneath me. Except you._

Mello’s lips pull back to bare his teeth. “Shut up,” he spits. “Just—shut up.” He wraps his hands back around Near’s neck. Near sputters and chokes, and his hands reflexively go back to Mello’s wrists, grasping again. Mello only squeezes harder, watching Near’s pale, sharp face slowly redden, but he doesn’t thrash or try to buck Mello off. He just takes it.

Near’s eyelids flutter. A fine sheen of sweat has broken out on his brow, and all Mello wants to do is bend down and kiss it away, smear it against his lips, taste it on his tongue. Near releases one of his wrists to place a solid hand on his chest, but he doesn’t push—he just presses his warm palm against Mello’s drumming heart, as if to say: _try it._

Mello grips harder, trying to wring the life from him, wanting to cinch Near’s throat down to nothing. He knows he’s dangerously close to doing it, too, and Near is beginning to fade.

His cock jumps against its leather confines, throbbing. Fuck. Mello releases him, panting.

Near gasps for breath, heaves it in, turns his head away. Mello has left dark, purpling handprints around his throat, and he wants to taste those, too. He leans forward, grabs a fistful of Near’s hair, cranks his head to the side, and starts laying wet kisses up and down the plum-bruised skin, feeling the spasm of Near’s crushed windpipe, his thick, slurry coughs. His pulsepoint is going so fast, it’s like kissing a trapped bird, beating its wings futilely against a cage of flesh.

He sucks bruises on top of bruises, bites down hard on ruddy, damaged flesh. He leaves scrapes down Near’s chest, licks at his stiff little nipples, worries at them with his teeth. No longer perfect. No longer pale and unmarred, but flushed, ruined, riddled with marks, and _he_ put them there.

Still, Near lies there and lets it happen.

“You’re even more fucked up than I am,” Mello says, taking hold of his ripped shirt and shaking him. “Letting me do this shit to you. Why aren’t you fighting back?”

Near’s head lolls, hiccupping for lost breath. His hair sticks to his forehead, pasted there by a sheen of cold, tacky sweat.

“Fight back,” Mello growls, slamming Near down. Near’s head lolls again, unsupported by his ruined neck. A burst of pleasure fires up Mello’s spine as he shoves against Near’s still-soft cock. “Fight back!”

Near just looks at him, eyes clouded, but lucid. Blank, condemning holes in his skull. 

It occurs to Mello that Near might be allowing this—orchestrating it, even, into a controlled crash, why else is there nobody here?—because he thinks letting Mello get what he wants will help him focus on other, more important things. Like Kira.

How _generous_ of him.

“Come on, you piece of shit,” Mello hisses, jaw clenched. He feels strangely helpless, compelled, caught up in something larger than himself, in the undertow of his own being. The corners of Near’s mouth twitch up, and it’s as good as outright laughter, for him.

“You don't _just_ want me to fight,” he rasps, voice shredded. Little pieces of paper in the wind. Tinkling glass. “You want me to fuck you. You want me to want you back. But I don’t. I never will. So you’ll just have to settle for this instead.”

Mello freezes, incensed. The truth of it is obvious, but to hear it spoken aloud is infuriating.

“At least I got here first,” he snarls, shoving Near’s legs up and apart. The thought is like a punch to the solar plexus, a guaranteed victory. He drags a forefinger up Near’s cleft and tests the hole there, his thumb shoved right up underneath the tender pink curve of his balls. “First place prize.”

Near’s jaw tightens, just enough for Mello to know he's bracing for it. For all his apathy, he’s still confined to a human body—he’ll feel this. Mello will make him feel it.

He reaches between them to get his buckle and flies undone. Finally, he gets a hand around his own dripping cock, and the relief is immediate. He smears fluid from the tip across Near’s soft dick and groans, watching it glisten on his skin, flushed ruddy pink from what Mello’s already put him through. Still, Near does nothing.

Bastard. He doesn’t even deserve fingers first.

Mello grabs Near’s hip with one hand and his own cock with the other. It’s a thrill to see himself so close to taking the only thing Near would never ordinarily give to another human being. It’s his, and he wants it, and he’s going to have it. Air whistles in through his clenched teeth. He positions himself, watching the head of his cock smear against Near’s untouched hole. _Shit._

He sinks in and bites into his lip to keep from groaning. He’s only barely past the ring of muscle, Near’s so tight.

Near doesn’t scream, but he’s not quiet, either. His breath wheezes out in a rasping moan of pain. Mello hunches over him, snarling like a feral cat. His cock feels like it’s being squeezed off, but the pressure’s good. It’s too fucking good.

“Sorry you didn’t fight me yet?” he asks, and bends to savagely kiss him.

Near’s mouth is unresponsive under his, soft and wet, like a dead fish. Mello kicks his hips forward in retaliation, seating himself fully with a single, rough stroke, and Near grunts brokenly into his mouth. Mello pulls out, then pushes in again, dragging dry against Near’s rim. Warmth blooms around his dick, hot and wet, and it’s not such a dry slide anymore.

Near’s eyes are glassy. He hopes it’s excruciating for Near; hopes he’ll feel it for a long time. Mello wants to crawl inside him, all the way inside, wants to be a whole person, a single entity, a fused being, but he _can’t_. 

Instead, he drags his tongue across the raised veins of Near’s neck, into the tensing dip of his collarbones. He grips his small, dainty waist, forces himself even deeper into Near’s hole, forces him to take it. Near gives a hushed whine, and Mello grins wildly.

He’s close, the heat of it a thick tight tangle of wire in his gut, all knotted up and pulsing. He wants it done, wants the harsh pleasure, even if it will only last a moment. He chases it wildly, fucking his cock into Near, hunched over him, consuming him, panting harshly against his mouth, hands clamped in his torn blood-spotted clothing. So close. Grasping, he takes Near’s wrist and holds it up to his mouth, kisses the fragile papery skin, rubs his cheek across the joint, grips it so hard the bones grind together. 

Near’s staring right at him, eyes glazed with unshed tears. Mello utters a hoarse grunt and comes, hips bucking, cock throbbing as it’s milked by Near’s ruined, clenching hole. He feels like laughing. He drags a hand down Near’s heaving chest, slick with his sweat, feels it wet his palm, the tips of his fingers. He closes his eyes.

“Got it out of your system?”

Mello bends to kiss Near’s splotchy throat, catching his breath against the heated skin. “Not even close. The next time I see you, I’m gonna fuck you until you cry.”

“If you must,” Near says, blankly. Like he couldn’t care less. Like he knows something Mello doesn’t.

Mello can’t care. He got what he wanted. Maybe not _how_ he wanted it, but—he’ll take this. He slowly curls over Near’s body, on top of him, putting his face to the damp juncture of Near’s neck and shoulder, where he’d nearly wrung the life from him. He listens to Near’s heartbeat, slowing beneath his palm. The same as his. 

Synced, at last.


End file.
